Playing with Fire
by Godforsaken
Summary: In some ways, a typical postmodern vampire romance. A somewhat eccentric new student befriends Draco, and things get ever stranger from there. Gothicism and language warning.
1. Calandra

Author's Note: Rewrite number three. Hopefully, third time's the charm

Disclaimer: Most of this belongs to J. K. Rowling, and much is inspired by Anne Rice and/or Amelia Atwater-Rhodes. I do not own The Craft (good movie, by the way). I thank you not to steal the small amount of stuff I do own.

Playing With Fire 

by Godforsaken

Chapter One.

If there were anything remarkable to be said about the goblet, it would be that it was gold. After all, goblets were most commonly wood, or pewter. But this one was gold. Other than that, it was quite uninteresting. It was undecorated, of a middling size, and half full of pumpkin juice. 

Even the fact that it was gold was not particularly remarkable, in context. All the other dishes and cutlery in the room were gold, as well. And in all likelihood, it was not truly wrought of gold; it merely appeared so. 

The way Draco was staring at it, one would think it contained the key to unlocking all the secrets of the universe.

At the moment, the only key Draco particularly wished for would be the one that unlocked the secret of how to get Pansy Parkinson to shut up. Or simply the key to lock her mouth, perhaps.

It would have been vaguely amusing that Pansy did not even realize that he wasn't listening, if it hadn't been going on for so long. At some point, several years ago, it had been amusing. Now it was just stupid. And so he stared fixedly at a small point of light on the rim of his goblet, tuning her out as much as he could.

In tuning out Pansy, he had unfortunately tuned out the rest of the world as well. He did not realize it when Dumbledore shouted for the attention of the student body.

To be perfectly honest, neither did the rest of the student body. Dumbledore frowned, and made a small gesture.

A high-pitched whine filled the air, tearing through the thoughts and conversations and causing students to wince, clapping their hands over their ears. Draco was jolted back into reality, and gave the high table a wide-eyed stare, as his brain tried to label the sound he had just heard.

After a moment, it came to him. Microphone feedback. He was not sure where he had heard it before, but he remembered the sound.

He turned his eyes back to his goblet, curling his lip in disgust. Was nothing sacred? After a moment, he cracked his neck and looked back up at Dumbledore, a bored expression on his face, prepared for a long and boring speech.

There wasn't one, which was a pleasant surprise. The Headmaster announced that there was a new fifth-year Slytherin, and he trusted the students would be nice to her. He pointed her towards the Slytherin table and sat back down.

Draco took a good look at the girl, who currently was wearing an expression clearly stating hatred for her current situation of being here now. She was a pale, thin brunette who simply exuded antisocial-ness. Though her face was fairly delicately boned, her jaw was stubborn; her hair was pulled back out of her eyes with silver combs, and said eyes were cold, black, and intense. 

They were also focused on the seat on the other side of Pansy, the only available seat at the Slytherin table. Draco espied a way to separate himself from his talkative shadow. 

Pansy, could you move down a seat? he asked, keeping his voice civil. Pansy, being utterly clueless and eager to please him (as long as that never included being quiet), obliged.

The girl noticed the not-so-subtle invitation. Is this seat taken? she inquired as she stepped up to it, without a trace of usual adolescent unconfidence. 

Perfect timing. Draco answered calmly, as Pansy looked from one to the other and opened and closed her mouth like a fish.

The girl slid into the seat before Pansy could figure out what was going on. 

Although said chatterbox felt slighted, she bounced back with the resilience of those who are too clueless to ever be emotionally scarred about anything. So. What's your name, new girl?

The new girl, whose name was Calandra, calmly glanced at Pansy before diverting her attention to an area of the tablecloth that was directly in her line of sight anyway.

Pansy tried again. Hello? Are you going to answer me? she demanded, poking Calandra in the arm.

Calandra grabbed the hand that was poking her and firmly guided it back into its owner's personal space. she replied, and then was silent again.

But I asked you a question!

Calandra turned to Draco. Is she like this all the time? she asked politely.

replied Draco. Usually she's worse.

Ah, dear. And must you deal with her all the time?

Unfortunately, yes.

Calandra looked at him, thoughtfully. Then you must be close to madness.

At times, yes, Draco replied, mildly amused in spite of himself. I'm Draco.

I am Rose. I am somewhat more pleased to meet you than I am to meet her, she said carefully, gesturing to Pansy, who looked affronted. 

I feel honored, Draco said dryly, smiling slightly before changing the topic. How is it that you come here three weeks into the school year? And how is it that you come during fifth year?

Calandra was prepared for these questions. She knew they were going to be asked, and she knew equally well that the truth was not a wise answer—the truth, in this case, being On a whim, as I am a vampire, and vampires are prone to doing stupid things on whims.

She answered instead: Some things got slightly delayed in our move here from Germany. I was supposed to come at the beginning of school, but was simply unable to do so.

Draco nodded, accepting her answer. Calandra smiled inwardly. Simple lies. Always very simple lies. Three thousand years of learning, growing up in that most brilliant of cultures, Ancient Greece, and she still liked the simple lies. 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Draco sat in a chair in the common room, with Pansy on the arm of the chair whining at him. He wondered vaguely where Calandra had gone; he couldn't recall seeing her after classes. It was currently nearing midnight. He figured he should probably go to bed soon—this year was supposed to be a hard year, and he wasn't getting anything done at the moment, so he might as well be rested so he could get something done tomorrow. At the very least, he wanted his sanity somewhat intact for the O.W.L.s. 

Calandra quietly came down the stairs, books in her arms. The few remaining inhabitants of the common room glanced up at her briefly, then returned to their activities. She sneered at the room in general before settling down in a chair next to Draco, greeting him civilly and Pansy not at all. 

Pansy seemed rather unhappy with this arrangement. Why are you ignoring me? What did I do to make you hate me already? she whined.

Calandra raised an eyebrow and giggled infuriatingly. Pansy's whine became shriller.

Draco nonchalantly shoved her off the arm of the chair. Calandra laughed outright as Pansy shrieked, striking her head on the stone hearth. 

And then, miraculously, Pansy was quiet.

In truth, it was not a miracle—the girl was simply knocked out. A girl who apparently had some minor issues with the Slytherin rule of Don't help anybody, ever ran out the door to get Madam Pomfrey. 

Quick and effective, Calandra noted, peering at Pansy's prone form. 

The room was empty except for the boy, the vampire, and the unconscious girl by the time Madam Pomfrey arrived.

Ah, medical, Calandra said, somewhat vaguely.

What exactly happened here? Pomfrey demanded, glaring at them.

Oh, she fell, madam, Calandra replied, in a too-angelic tone of voice. Just toppled right over.

_She'll never believe you_, Draco thought to Calandra. 

But apparently Calandra's strategy had some merit. Madam Pomfrey gave her a queer look, then left it at: Miss Parkinson's injuries are the important thing at the moment. We will solve this later. And with that, Pansy was carted off to the Infirmary.

Calandra said cheerfully as the door to the common room closed. 

Draco stared at her. You are exceedingly strange.

Thank you. She looked around the room, and frowned. Oh, that's pathetic.

That they left? I suppose it is.

Calandra looked at him. I'm doing homework. You, however, might wish to go to bed.

Draco wanted to argue, but couldn't really come up with an argument. So with a sigh and a sarcastic Yes, mother, he ambled upstairs.

Calandra cracked her neck. That shouldn't have taken _any _effort. Well, that was what sunlight would do to someone.

Time passed, as is its wont. Calandra and Draco became first allies against Pansy, then very staunch and loyal allies against Pansy, and finally friends. Pansy eventually took to leaving them alone, especially since the looks Calandra gave her every time she attempted to speak to Draco were disturbingly reminiscent of Nancy from The Craft. 

Calandra's secret stayed safely secret, and it was soon accepted that she was merely extremely freaking bizarre and very prone to sunburn. She generally refused to tell anyone anything about herself, preferring to give off-putting Nancy-like smiles, and generally things went nice and happily, except with way too much schoolwork, by general consensus.

A week or so before Christmas break, at half past midnight, Draco sat staring into the fire, his Transfiguration homework lying neglected on his lap. Calandra mumbled to herself as she scribbled out a letter to her father in French.

_Je sais, je sais, je sais; je ne suis pas stupide_ she mumbled, writing. She stopped for a moment, and looked at Draco. 

he replied, snapping out of his reverie.

_Qu'est-ce que tu_—sorry, what are you doing Christmas vacation?

Draco shrugged. Going home, I suppose. Why?

Would you prefer to spend vacation at my estate instead?

You call it your _estate_?

Answer the question.

Calandra continued writing as Draco went off to send his father an owl. 


	2. The Train

Author's Note: Please forgive me when things in the rewrites do not correspond with chapters that have not been rewritten yet. They will get fixed eventually. 

Disclaimer: Most things are not my own, and please do not steal the few things that are. Merci.

Playing with Fire

By Godforsaken

Chapter Two.

Calandra blinked sleepily as she peered out the window of the Hogwarts Express and into the winter predawn. It was six o'clock in the morning. Every cell in her body screamed that it was time to go to sleep now.

Where the hell was Draco?

She closed her eyes and reached out to see if she could sense him, but it did no good. Her powers were severely drained from living in the sun for so many weeks—she was looking forward to some time to replenish them, even if it was only a two-week vacation.

She sighed and leant her forehead against the windowpane, curling up into an even tighter ball.

Was this really a good idea, inviting a human being into the lair of three vampires? Common sense told her it wasn't. Not like she made much of a habit of listening to common sense very often, but still

Ah well, no backing out now. Draco was making his way towards the train.

Dismal morning, she greeted him as he entered the compartment a minute later. 

Yes, it is, he concurred, collapsing into a seat. I am _never _getting up at three in the morning again. I'll pack the night before next time.

Calandra gave a slight laugh. At least the big ball of fire in the sky isn't quite out yet.

What does that have to do with anything? Draco inquired.

It interferes with feeling sorry for yourself, she explained. And personally, too much light too early gives me a headache.

Sucks to be you, was Draco's sympathetic reply. Is that why you never go outside?

Your powers of stating the obvious astound me.

There was a moment of comfortable silence before Calandra spoke again. I don't believe I've warned you of my families oddities, or indeed spoken of them to you at all

Draco paused. No, I don't believe you have, actually.

She raised her eyebrows. Oh, dear. I should probably do that before we arrive; we're a bit eccentric

Draco waved this away, as the train lurched into motion. Eh, so's my family.

Most wizarding families are, she reminded him. You'd still be pretty hard-pressed to beat mine.

Draco rolled his eyes. Come on, you know _every _teenager thinks their family's the weirdest.

She gave a lazy smile. Is that a challenge? she inquired, raising an eyebrow.

responded, amused at his friend's mannerism. I _challenge _you—he mimed thwacking her with a glove—to make good your boast.

Very well. She sat up straight. Point the first, we are not an ordinarily related family unit, in that my father is not my father, my mother is not my mother, etc. I think we're all connected to the same family, but bastards, which is why we've all banded together. You'd have to see it on paper to figure out the relations, but for all intents and purposes, my mother's Indian, my father's French, my sister's Spanish and I'm Greek.

So you've just sort of banded together?

Calandra nodded as something in her brain snorted, _Gullible human_. Outcasts do that. Well-known sociological fact. Not like I know anything about actual sociology she trailed off. Sorry. Tired. And I know it sounds ridiculous.

That's alright.

_No, it isn't; it's_ _ridiculous and you should've caught it. _ our idea of a holiday celebration is going to be to sit around in the living room and make fun of it for about fifteen minutes because we can't all stand each other's company for longer than that, so I hope you don't mind that there'll be no big dinner or anything.

Perfectly fine.

In fact, we don't eat much at all in general. But I'll be happy to cook for you; I like cooking but it's just not warranted often enough in my household.

You don't have house-elves? Technically Draco knew this was an abominably rude question, but he had been raised to be abominably rude like that.

Calandra shrugged. Don't need them; my father's compulsive enough. Pause. I have a pet snake. I hope you like snakes.

What kind of snake?

Red boa.

Drat. Not poisonous.

Calandra grinned. I tried, but Mummy Soneille wouldn't let me. Wouldn't even let me get a constrictor.

Poor you. Anything else?

We're nocturnal.

Draco paused. I think you've made good your boast.

Calandra laughed. You'll get used to it.

I daresay it'll be fun, he grinned.

Hope so. Thoughtful pause. I believe that's it. We're generally lunatics. You'll fit right in once we all get used to each other and loosen up. She sounded almost optimistic.

For an ice-cold moment they simply looked at one another, wondering what they'd gotten themselves into. Then Calandra winked and settled back in her seat, retreating into her own thoughts.

And the train rolled on. 


	3. The Palladium

Disclaimer: Calandra & co is mine, most of the rest is J. K. Rowling's. London After Midnight belong to themselves. Thanks to Armelle for the book title suggestion.

Playing With Fire

By Godforsaken

Five feet six inches of black-clad, undead and above all lethal blood-drinking monster lay loosely curled up over three seats on the train, asleep and with her cloak over her face. Looking down, Draco resisted the urge to pat her on the head.

Fortunately, he refrained from any such condescending gestures and thus was allowed to keep his fingers. Slouching a bit more comfortable in the fourth seat, he admitted to himself that it was indeed a beastly hour to start a vacation. He had just turned back to his copy of _A Profile of the Dark Arts of the Twentieth Century _when a voice rang out, painfully loudly:

"ATTENTION. WE WILL BE ARRIVING AT KING'S CROSS STATION IN TEN MINUTES. THANK YOU."

"You are most emphatically _not _fucking welcome," Calandra mumbled irritably, sitting up and pulling off her cloak. "Middle of the fucking afternoon..." Blinking, she held the cloak up as a momentary shield against the sunlight.

Draco debated the wisdom of saying... well, anything. He decided against it.

She glared at him. "_You_ didn't wake me up; I won't kill you. Not now, at any rate." She carefully lowered her arm and crossed to her trunk, balanced precariously on the other row of seats.

"I suppose that's a relief." After a pause: "So who are you going to kill in the meantime?" he asked casually.

"Don't ask," she advised, opening the trunk and pulling a black coat out of it. "Ever."

"You're no fun," he complained amicably.

She looked thoughtful as she pulled off her robe, threw it in the trunk along with the cloak, and locked the trunk shut. Then she carefully replied: "I am not entirely sure you would like me when I am fun."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Is that some sort of challenge?"

Calandra grinned and threw the coat on, then mildly inquired: "Are you planning on reaching King's Cross still in your robes?"

"Hm?—oh." He unceremoniously dumped his robe and book into his own trunk—stationed conveniently right in the middle of the floor—as Calandra fished through her purse. Then:

"Oh, shit."

"What?" she asked, sunglasses halfway to her face.

"I don't have anything besides my cloak," he replied.

"Oh, that's alright. Wear it and we'll pretend we're Goths," she answered, actually putting the sunglasses on this time.

Draco rolled his eyes and obeyed. "Why do I let you give me orders?" he groused.

"At the moment, because you don't have any other options," she replied, and hummed a few bars of London After Midnight. "_...Come with me and live forever..._"

Except for a few more snatches of _October _from Calandra, they were silent until the train pulled into the station. Then she quietly stood up, vanished the trunks, and walked out the compartment door.

Draco rolled his eyes and followed as she disembarked, left the station and started walking down the street, apparently oblivious to the freezing wind and the much-hated sunlight.

Being a royally spoilt brat as he was, Draco was a bit put out. "We're _walking_?"

"You didn't think my parents would pick us up, did you? They're asleep," she pointed out. There's a Portkey at a bookstore nearby we'll be using."

He allowed himself to be shepherded along a few more blocks and into the back of a small secondhand bookstore. Calandra grabbed his wrist—he winced; her hands were _freezing_—and reached behind a small bookshelf of what appeared to be mostly occult material. Eyes on the ceiling, she pretended to look for something and transported them both home. She mimed putting something in her pocket, but the gesture proved unnecessary.

The gate in front of them was a massive wrought-iron affair set in an 8-foot stone privacy wall, with singularly unwholesome images suggested by the twisted metal. Draco was staring at it with something akin to admiration.

Calandra muttered something in what sounded like German, and the gate creaked open.

"Very dramatic," Draco whispered as they stepped through.

Calandra grinned. "I have a bit of an affinity for dramatic crap like that. You should see it when it _isn't _3 o'clock in the afternoon." They'd reached the door, another heavy ominous bit of décor, ancient dark wood with iron fittings that also creaked when they opened it. "And speaking of it being 3 o'clock in the afternoon, we're going to bed now."

Draco followed her up a dramatically sweeping staircase and through a maze of corridors, until she turned into a short hallway and slowed down. They passed one door on the left; there appeared to be no other doorways in the hall.

Calandra looked at the blank wall at the far end of the corridor, then the blank wall between the other door and the end.

She pointed at it. "There's supposed to be a doorway there," she said quietly, then retraced her steps back to the existing door.

"This is my room," she told him, opening the door. "A room for you was evidently not prepared, despite my instructions, therefore you will stay here tonight and I'll... probably bunk with my sister."

Crossing the black-and-red room, Calandra closed the blackout curtains, thus plunging the room into near-darkness.

Draco felt uneasy, being an antisocial creature of habit and thus not used to occupying other people's "space." He sighed as his eyes adjusted enough to let him see the outline of the four-poster bed. "Alright."

"Your trunk's at the foot of the bed. I think... yeah. Um... don't poke around too much, please, and I'll see you in the evening. Goodnight." She headed back towards the door.

"Goodnight."

The door closed.

Draco sat on the bed and started taking off his boots.

Calandra took a deep breath, for purely psychological reasons, and threw back the lid of her fledgling's coffin.

"Mariseta, Mariseta, it's me," she declared as the vampire inside gave its natural reaction—grabbing her by the throat in a tight enough stranglehold to turn a mortal's vertebrae to powder. "It's me, you twit, Calandra..."

Mariseta let go as she woke up. "Oh, it's you."

"It'd be anyone else?" Calandra demanded, rubbing her neck. "My coffin's under my four-poster and my four-poster is occupied by a human because a room for him wasn't prepared, so I have to bunk with you for the remainder of the night."

"A room was prepared," Mariseta replied indignantly. "Did most of it myself."

"If it doesn't have a _door_, it is not 'prepared' sufficiently for a human, wizard or no," Calandra snapped. "I'll fix it tomorrow; right now I want to sleep."

Mariseta moved over and beckoned Calandra to climb in. "Ah, you poor stressed-out nutcase," she said sympathetically.

"I love you too," Calandra growled, settling into the coffin.

Mariseta kissed her as the lid clicked shut.


	4. The Family

Disclaimer: That which does not belong to J.K. Rowling either belongs to me or really belongs to just about nobody, unless otherwise noted. In either case, it is not yours. Specific credits: "Ai Vis Lo Lop" is Old French medieval folk music (despite the fact that the first time I heard of it I was told it was in Swedish), but the metal recording in question is by In Extremo. _Respit de la Mort_ is by Jean LeFevre… and is a French Medieval poem. (I've a bit of a theme going, haven't I?) The _Purgatorio _is part of Dante's _Divine Comedy_ and thus belongs to Dante Alighieri. D_e Masticatione Mortuorum _"On the Chewing Dead" is by Philip Rohr, from 1679.

A/N: The French word _putain _means "whore." Otherwise, I have tried to limit my use of foreign language to places where knowing what the word means is either evident from context and/or its frequent use in English (such as _merci _and _enchanté_), or where the meaning of the words is not necessary to the story, such as the songs. If, however, I do unduly confuse the reader, then I blame Victor Hugo and Montague Summers (authors with a very heavy penchant for Latin) and will fix it.

Playing with Fire

By Godforsaken

Chapter Four.

It had been a long and fruitless day for the weak winter sun, and the scarce warmth it gave to the manor house disappeared as it slowly dropped, weary and defeated, below the horizon. The sudden chill struck through layer upon layer of stone and wood, into the very bones of the vampires that called this crumbling pile of Gothic architecture their home.

Soneille's face broke into a grin as she woke with a start.

A moment later, the lid flew off her coffin and an angry Calandra ungently pulled her into a sitting position.

"Very funny," the Greek hissed, glowering. "_You're _the woman of the house when I'm gone; _you're _the oldest and most powerful here; and I _know_ you don't just _forget_ these things. So is there _any _reason under Heaven why you did not reopen a **door** to the room next to mine?"

Soneille raised an eyebrow, ignoring the hand around her throat. "I thought he'd be staying with you."

Calandra tightened her grip. "Bullshit, and you know it. Now, I'm going to find some breakfast, and you're going to reattach that room to both the hallway and the bathroom, and _then _you can go into town. And I promise you that if you make _one_ _more_ juvenile crack about my habit of befriending mortals or my promiscuity, I will rend you limb from limb because you're not any better, and you know it. Especially about the second one. Understand?"

Soneille nodded, but glared. "What did you do with him?" she inquired.

"He's in my room. Don't wake him up. I bunked with Mariseta, which is another reason I never want this to happen again." Calandra's wrathful glare gave way to a rather disgruntled expression.

Soneille snerked and eased Calandra's hand off her neck. "Well, if I'd figured that would happen, I may have thought twice…" She winced as she cracked her neck. "You go eat, I'll take care of things. And I'll be quiet," she added hastily.

"_Merci_," Calandra mumbled, and ran off.

Soneille fell back into her coffin, rubbing her neck. "Bitch knows me too well," she remarked to the ceiling. "I'm too pliable first thing in the evening."

"_AI VIS LO LOP, LE RENARD, LA LEBRE_

"_AI VIS LO LOP, LE RENARD DANSAR…"_

Draco woke up with a start, looking around frantically for the source of the too-loud heavy metal. Cursing like a sailor, his eyes finally landed on Calandra, who stopped the music immediately.

"Good evening," she greeted him, smiling sweetly. "You may wish to consider getting up soon, as I'll be back in forty-five minutes regardless of whether you're dressed or not."

"What time is it?" he inquired sleepily.

"Eh… about seven o'clock _post meridiem_. It gets dark early so we let you sleep in a bit."

Draco rubbed his eyes and muttered something in which the word "sadistic" was distinguishable.

"Oh, that's nice, and when we'd gotten your room ready while you were still sleeping, too. Serves me right for trying to be good to you." She grinned at him. "The door to the bathroom is hiding behind the Camelot tapestry. I'll be back shortly."

She left, singing quietly:

"_Je fis de Macabre la danse_

_Qui tout gent maine à sa trace_

_E a la fosse les adresse... "_

Draco stared at the closed door—or rather, at the giant wrought-iron cross attached to the back of it—trying to figure out what under Heaven could possibly have put his sullen friend into such a good humor. After a few minutes he gave up, and took a good look around the room.

Calandra's spacious chamber, shrunk by the deep burgundy color of the walls, somewhat resembled a Gothic junk shop. It didn't seem to have electric lighting, despite the computer and stereo, and the only illumination came from candles and oil lamps—_everywhere_. There were lamps and candles on tables, shelves, the desk; in wall sconces; and in a rather sinister-looking chandelier that managed to look more like an instrument of torture than a lighting fixture. Tapestries, woodcuts, armor, bas-reliefs, lithographs, quotes, and the symbolic paraphernalia of numerous religions cluttered up the walls and the sides of furniture; books, papers, writing implements, and a number of odd trinkets cluttered up every available horizontal surface. The Stations of the Cross, cast in bronze, were lined up near the ceiling on one of the walls, all right next to each other like a bizarre Passion comic strip.

Warily eyeing the Camelot tapestry, Draco wondered what the bathroom would look like.

Fifty minutes later he was winding his way through the same stone corridors he hadn't gotten to really look at yesterday, at about twice the speed. He followed Calandra to a pair of immense double doors, as medievally impressive as the rest of the house, where she abruptly stopped. Draco nearly ran into her.

"This," she announced, "is the library, and thus the most important room in the castle, and one of the few places where you are likely to see more than one of us at a time." She carefully opened one of the doors, stuck her head in, and went through. Draco followed.

While he was not a particularly bookish person, he had to be impressed at the vastness of the library. It made the British Museum look like it wasn't really trying.

In the small circle of chairs and tables around the fireplace, two figures looked up and stared at them.

Calandra pointed at one of them, a tall, thin, aristocratic-looking man with black hair, black eyes, black robes, and very white skin. "This is Setail; it's likely that you won't be seeing very much of him, despite the fact that he's the only other male in the house except for some of the pets." Setail nodded at Draco and glared at Calandra.

She raised an eyebrow and gestured towards the young, pretty brunette curled up with Dante's _Purgatorio_. "Mariseta you _will _be seeing a lot of."

"_Enchanté_," purred Mariseta.

"_Putain_," Calandra muttered.

"Now, let's not be hostile," Mariseta replied. "Why don't you sit down, actually introduce your friend to us instead of just the other way 'round, and we'll wait for Soneille to get back from town, and not all kill each other until about ten o'clock, okay?"

Calandra sat on the arm of a chair and beckoned for Draco to take a seat. "But darling, you know I don't do useless formalities. If you don't already know who he is, then you're simply stupid and don't deserve to be told anything."

Mariseta burst into laughter. "Glad to be home, are you? I haven't seen you this happy since we went to New York."

"Aye, a good day's rest does wonders. A diurnal schedule's nearly _impossible _to get entirely adjusted to."

Put out at feeling ignored, Draco looked over towards Setail's table, at the document the man was leafing through. He read the title upside-down, then blinked and read it again.

_De Masticatione Mortuorum._

_Jesus Christ_, he thought. _This'll be interesting. They're _all _like that._


	5. A Bookstore

A/N: One more chapter and then the names and plot points will start making sense again.

Disclaimer: Don't own JKR's stuff. Do own Calandra &co. Don't own Montague Summers.

Playing with Fire: Chapter Five

By Godforsaken

Calandra's manor house, despite looking like a cracked-out French museum, had to be the most low-key household Draco had ever set foot in. Its inhabitants were randomly disappearing and showing back up without much regard for the other inhabitants, and there were no family meals of any sort whatsoever. The library was usually the noisiest room in the house, as it was the only place where the family members seemed to see each other very often. Odder still, for Draco, was the fact that the family seemed to have no regard for whether the stuff strewn around their estate was magic or Muggle, just as Calandra never seemed to draw any distinction between wearing robes, wearing Muggle clothing, and wearing Muggle clothing that had gone out of fashion three hundred years ago.

The only sort of structure to their day was their sleep schedule—every morning, the entire house went to bed the moment the sun was up, and every evening, Calandra woke him up in some rude and usually very noisy way an hour or two after the sun went down. According to her, the rest of them got up at about sunset. However, once he had been unceremoniously dragged out of bed, the rest of their day was usually spent in an indolent mix of reading, listening to music, wandering around the house gawping at the various things that most museums would kill for, and—Draco's preferred pastime—playing with Calandra's snake. She'd christened it Edward Teach, on the basis that she was running out of good names for pets, and remarked gravely that when Teach died her next snake was probably going to get stuck with a name like Errol Flynn and she just wouldn't be able to take the poor creature seriously.

Draco hadn't really understood a word of that particular comment, and thus ensued a four-hour discussion on pirate history in which Draco learned that Edward Teach was Blackbeard's real name, that two female pirates had once sailed on the same ship, and that his friend knew so much useless crap she could probably show up Hermione Granger; and utterly failed to retain anything else.

By the third day he'd gotten used to the completely directionless way of life, and so of course Calandra went and sprung actual information on him.

"My parents are having a party this evening, and we're not going."

It took him a moment to realize she'd said anything, and another to realize that "this evening" meant when they next woke up. "Why?"

She pursed her lips, still looking at the snake rather than at him. "My parent's friends are… weird. It would be best if you didn't meet them."

Draco raised an eyebrow: considering Calandra was wearing vinyl pants, a corset, and green eyeliner, he didn't think "weird" was quite something she should be accusing other people of, let alone positing it as a reason to keep them away from him. "Mm-_hm_."

There was a moment of silence as Edward Teach coiled himself around Calandra's arm.

"What are we doing instead?" Draco asked.

"We're going into town," she answered. "Not much is open at night but there's one of those bookstore-coffeeshop thingies that just opened, and we can probably spend a number of hours there." Noticing Draco's skeptical look, she grinned. "What, you can't spend four hours in a bookstore?"

"You have the oddest ideas of fun," he commented. Calandra shrugged; she knew that.

At that moment a pompous-looking owl flew through the open window, landing on Draco's shoulder. The snake hissed at it; Draco, recognizing it as his fathers, untied the message from its leg.

"Well, that certainly took them long enough," he remarked after reading it. In response to Calandra's quizzical look, he clarified: "They want to meet you."

"What, are we getting married?" Calandra replied.

"They say to come by Floo powder at noon on Thursday. Er… tomorrow," he corrected himself, still unused to the idea that it was Wednesday when he'd woken up on Tuesday.

"Tell them seven at night," Calandra grumbled. "I'm not getting up for a noon appointment on my Christmas break." Draco scribbled a reply as she addressed her snake: "_Qui pense-il qu'il est, le Roi du Monde? Nous dormirons à douze heures, n'est-ce pas, monsieur le Capitaine ? " _

"Does everyone in this house speak French but me?" Draco inquired, sending the owl off again.

"Yep, although Mariseta's still learning, and ditto for German. You should be grateful everyone but Teach here speaks English," she replied serenely.

It was exactly fifteen minutes to seven on Wednesday evening and Calandra was multitasking, trying to simultaneously do her eyeliner, mentally berate herself, and verbally argue with Mariseta.

"You've been even more high-strung than usual since you got back; I can feel it. If you calm the hell down you'll be alright," her fledgling was advising.

"I've made a mistake. I've gone completely mad. And I have fifteen minutes to get that _stupid_ human out of here before Nikolai or one of the others bloody _eats_ him, and I don't even know if he's _up _yet."

"You're not mad," Mariseta protested. "And he seems rather promising."

"Yes, but I've got six months left until the end of the school year and I'm this close to letting the secrecy slip." She dropped the eye pencil irritably. "Three thousand years is way too long to live; I should do myself a favor and kick the bucket soon," she grumbled.

"Don't talk like that!" Mariseta cried, shocked.

"Oh, shut up," snarled Calandra. "You're young. Your stupid civilization hasn't been obliterated yet. You're not off your bloody rocker yet, so don't talk to me about how crazy people should talk. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm in a _hurry_."

Mariseta stuck her tongue out as Calandra swept out of the room. She just didn't have any other response.

Calandra glanced at the clock in the main hall as she half-dragged a still fairly sleepy Draco down the stairs and out the front door. Six fifty-nine. _Stupid human_.

They had barely reached the sidewalk when a deep red convertible pulled up and stopped directly in front of them. Calandra yelped "Shit!" and tore off down the street towards the town, ignoring the driver's protests. She never slowed her pace until they reached the doors of the bookstore downtown. There she let go of Draco's arm, to his great relief, and he wondered vaguely if the bruises on his wrist were going to last until they got back to school.

"What… the hell… was that?" he asked breathlessly as they entered the brightly lit store. He blinked; he hadn't seen light that bright in days.

"Nikolai," Calandra grimaced. "He's a friend of mine. Sort of. He's annoying as hell and I really didn't want to have to see him tonight, but…" She seemed to lighten up as she looked over the rows and rows of shiny books. "Let's go check out their Occult section."

"They have an Occult section?" Draco inquired, wondering what the hell Muggles would _put_ in an Occult section if they didn't believe in the occult.

"Sure, they're superstitious little buggers. It's all nonsense though, so it's really rather amusing… haven't you ever been in a Muggle bookstore before?"

"Not since I was about nine," Draco replied haughtily. "Why do you come to places like this, anyway?"

"It's amusing," Calandra answered, sinking to her knees in front of a bookshelf labeled "Supernatural – Occult." "Here, come look at some of this trash…"

"Twenty Galleons says there's not a single mention of the Dark Lord on this entire shelf," Draco drawled, unable to stop himself from picking up a copy of the _Necronomicon_ out of curiosity.

"Of course there isn't," Calandra laughed. "Barely a damn thing on this shelf has any basis in reality at all." After a moment, she added, "I wonder if the Dark Lord gets annoyed that nobody uses his name."

Draco put the book back on the shelf in disgust before Calandra's comment registered. "Wait… what?"

"If I'd gone to the trouble of making a spiffy name for myself like the Dark Lord's, I'd get very annoyed if nobody made any use of it," Calandra explained blandly.

Draco snerked appreciatively. "Don't let him hear you say that."

"Oh, I've no intention of doing so, don't worry," she said dismissively. "Oh!" She moved over a few feet, peering at the bottom two shelves. "Get away from that Wicca crap; I've found the Montague Summers," she informed him.

"Found the what?" Draco asked, dropping to the floor beside her.

"Montague Summers, a priest from the 1920s. He's a leading Muggle authority on witchcraft and magical creatures. Take a look; it's hysterical—" she handed him a copy of _The History of Witchcraft and Demonology_— "and at least half of the other books on this shelf are going to reference him at some point, especially the ones on vampires."

"Ooh, vampires," was Draco's immediate reaction, which Calandra seemed to find rather funny for some reason as to which Draco did not inquire.

"D'you think the Dark Lord's going to try to court the vampires again, now that he's back? I'm entirely sure he'll be after the giants and the werewolves, but nobody's said anything on vampires…"

"Vampires don't work for anybody," Calandra replied disdainfully. "Least, not as far as I've heard."

"I'm fairly sure he'll be able to offer them something good," Draco argued. "He's usually pretty effective at recruiting whoever he feels like recruiting."

"Guess we'll just have to wait until the next book comes out to be sure," Calandra replied, directing the comment mostly at a red-headed girl on the other side of the shelf who appeared to be eavesdropping.

"Thing is," she continued, turning back to Draco, "the vampires that people _know _are vampires and then would have any grudge against vampire hunters and 'part-human' prejudices and such don't last very long. The rest of the race just gets insulted at his whole immortality-seeking thing, and to be honest I think he'd be able to recruit the bloody centaurs first." Calandra scowled at a copy of the _Compendium Maleficarum _as she flicked it off the shelf and it tumbled into her lap.

"Why would he want the centaurs?" Draco asked disdainfully.

"Why would he want the vampires?" was Calandra's rhetorical reply. "Their _modus operandi _is entirely antithetical to his. Even the wizarding world doesn't usually register vampire attacks, as they're very rarely 'suspicious deaths,' which is sort of what the Dark Lord goes for." She refrained from mentioning that the first vampire created— miraculously still undead and kicking after several thousands of years— had vowed to personally dismember and eat any of her children that joined forces with Voldemort.

"I still think you're giving the vampires a little too much credit," Draco replied.

"Maybe." Calandra shrugged. "Although I thought your class had never studied vampires?"

"Well… no," Draco admitted. "Have you?"

"Would I be lecturing you on them if I hadn't?"

Draco regarded her suspiciously for a moment. "Where'd you transfer from?"

"Durmstrang," Calandra replied promptly.

"I was going to go there," Draco commented, somewhat wistfully.

"D'you want some coffee before we get kicked out of this place? I think it closes at nine-thirty…" Calandra, having never set foot in Durmstrang, didn't want to be dragged into a conversation about it. "I'll pay."

"What time is it?" Draco asked, standing up.

"Like… quarter to eight, or so." She grinned somewhat sheepishly. "It's gonna be a long night."


	6. Nikolai

A/N: IT TOOK ME SIX MONTHS TO WRITE THE FIRST DRAFT OF THIS CHAPTER! Sorry that's in all caps, it's just so patheticbut yeah, I'm back on a bit of a writing kick to the point where stories bombard me while I'm in the shower so I have to scribble them down on tiny bits of notebook paper while I'm still dripping wet until the Inspiration Locomotive runs out of steam ten pages later, but that's usually LOTR. _This_ story comes to me in math class and during my utterly uneventful lunch periods when I'm sitting in front of my locker reading Anne Rice or Anna Quindlen because I won't go in the cafeteria because the table tried to kill me in December. Yeah. Up and down, up and down, inspiration's so erraticanyway. I hope I'm a good enough writer that I can successfully introduce another new character, who may or may not show up again. I only have the vaguest thread of a full plot going all the way to the end of this chapter; I'll just have to wait and see how I write it and that means you will too. Hah. Um, many apologies. Thank you's to people that review.

Disclaimer: Own Nikolai. Own Calandra, no own Draco, think those are only people who show up in this chapter. No own anything HP related; JK own HP. See other freaking disclaimers for details.

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The moon shone down upon the streets of what might barely be called a city, oblivious to the single vampire prowling its streets. It also shone down upon a large, creepy stone mansion holding closer to a dozen vampires. The single vampire, leaning on the arm of a pale mortal boy, was a bit put out at having to leave the mansion and slink around the mortal city for another two and a half hours. Calmly discussing Greek mythology with Draco, she resisted the urge to scream at him, and kept her face neutral. The child knew nothing about her mother religion--that's one of those things that make vampires hate mortals so much. They know next to nothing. They rarely manage to learn even just a handful of languages. Or maybe Calandra was underestimating; she had no idea.

Draco knew nothing of this, soaking up the things Calandra was telling him like a blond, sarcastic sponge. They strolled around aimlessly, talking the hours away until they could go home. He was happy. She was bored. Eventually, she changed the topic to avoid going ballistic.

And the hours rolled by.

After what seemed like an eternity, they began heading back to the Palladium. When they got there, the deep red convertible was still in front of the house.

"First to come and last to leave. _Shit_." Calandra sounded irritated.

Beckoning to Draco, she slipped through the gate, threading her way through the trees to the back of the house. Though Draco didn't know it, she was also shielding both of them--if she did otherwise, Nikolai would most likely come bursting out of the house and drink Draco dry on the spot. He had a habit of doing things like that. 

Draco followed Calandra around the house to the base of an ivy- and black rose-covered wall. Looking up, Draco could tell by the balcony that they were directly below Calandra's room. He opened his mouth to ask what we they were doing, but Calandra put a finger to her lips to shut him up before he could say anything. Leaning very close to his face, she told him, in a barely audible whisper, "You don't want to meet Nikolai. Trust me."

She then grabbed hold of the climbing vines that covered the back walls and began climbing up to her balcony with the agility of a cat. Draco followed suit, trying not to grab the thorny black-rose vines but managing to do so a couple of times. Occasionally Calandra stopped and waited for him; she was much more used to climbing this wall than he was and therefore climbed it much faster--or so Draco's human logic told him. The simple truth was that she was a vampire, and vampires can climb up walls. However, humans are notorious for denying the simple truth.

When they got to the top, Calandra stepped onto the balcony and through the already open window. Draco followed suit, figuring that she had left her wand inside. They sat down on Calandra's bed, and fell to talking in low voices about nothing important, waiting until Nikolai left. Calandra silently prayed that Nikolai actually would leave without coming up to bother them, knowing that the chance of that happening was a bit slimmer than she'd like. But she absolutely couldn't come off as be afraid of him. Could not. Ah, this was futile.

After another half an hour, Calandra sullenly wondered if Nikolai planned on ever leaving. She was rather comfortable reclined on her red silken pillows, but was getting annoyed watching the fidgety human. By this time, he had flipped completely over so that his head was at the foot of the bed and his boots were resting on the wall just above the headboard. Truthfully, she was mostly annoyed at herself for forgetting to account for Nikolai's total lack of decency.

Calandra stiffened; Nikolai's presence was coming closer. Her door banged open, and a tall vampire with long brown-black hair and strong features entered.

"You didn't think I'd leave without saying hello, did you, dearest?" Nikolai's voice was sickeningly sweet, and Calandra's immediate reaction was to curl her lip in an expression of utter disgust and contempt.

"Say hello then, and get out of my chamber."

Nikolai didn't listen, his black eyes fixed on Draco with interest. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your charming friend, Calandra?"

Draco was a little disturbed by now. Who was this sinister black-haired man? Why did Rose seem to hate him so much? And why the hell did he call her ?

"No," Calandra responded.

"Well, since you obviously don't care about him enough to ensure that he knows your other friends, you won't care if I take him from you...right?"

In one moment Draco went from disturbed to highly disturbed and even more highly confused. Nikolai had moved swiftly from the doorway to the foot of the bed, right by Draco, in the blink of an eye. In the same span of time, Calandra had thrown herself on top of him, shielding him from the tall man with the French accent.

"I'm not going to yield this child to whatever you have in store for him, be it painful or merely disgusting," Calandra snapped. Draco was now _really_ worried.

Nikolai looked highly offended, but only for a moment. "Whatever could you mean by that?" 

Calandra glared up at him, a look to stop a tiger in its tracks. "We all know you're a sadist. It's no use pretending to be empathetic. You're more soulless than the rest of us, by a long shot." Nikolai seemed unperturbed.

"Well, I suppose--"

"You talk so much, Nikolai," Calandra interrupted, sounding somewhere between patronizing and threatening. "You are a god, in your imagination. But would you care to test your godly strength, and see how it matches up with mine? After all, you must remember which of us is the elder here."

Nikolai's expression changed from one of placidity to one of anger and fear, and he looked at the petite adolescent girl with loathing. She smiled sweetly at him, and Nikolai turned on his heel and strode out of the room, pausing at the door to state that "someday three thousand years won't be that large a difference."

Calandra sneered at his retreating back. "In another twenty thousand, if you survive that long," she replied.

Draco looked up at her quizzically. "Three thousand years?" Calandra stared at him, her black eyes wide with shock. Draco ignored this. "And there's no way you're older than he is...unless...."

Draco wasn't an idiot. A heartless bastard, definitely, but not an idiot. There was really only one immortal race out there, and both Calandra and Nikolai fit the picture perfectly. It would explain so much.... He opened his mouth to run this theory past his friend, when he was bitten hard on the neck.

A wave of pink obliterated all his senses, he was drowning in something soft and fragrant...andpink. How pretty. Oblivion enveloped him as, back in the real world, Calandra closed the puncture marks with a drop of her own blood and sat back, picking up a copy of _Hatshepsut_ by Evelyn Wells and opening to her bookmarked page. _That should take care of everything for the time being_, she thought to herself as she waited for him to regain consciousness. He wouldn't remember.

Draco blinked his eyes open, looking at Calandra as she pored over the Egyptian queen's biography. She looked up at him. "Rose?" he asked blearily, massaging his neck.

"You dozed off," she informed him. "If I were you, I'd go to bed now. And not with my head hanging off over the footboard, either."

She closed her book and left, thankful for her preternatural abilities of manipulation. The vampires wouldn't last a day without them.


End file.
